


Love Was His Banner Over Me

by ConanDoylesCarnations



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Biblical Allusions, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Teen just to be safe, ambiguous medieval setting despite having studied the Middle Ages for almost three years, folk tale structure, perfectionist Lancelot, song of solomon, soooo much symbolism and it smacks you in the face, sorry I just wanted it to feel Welsh but also my main Arthurian sense is based on Malory, the time-honoured tradition of doing wtf you want with the arthurian legends, vulnerable Lancelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28110045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConanDoylesCarnations/pseuds/ConanDoylesCarnations
Summary: To Gawain's delight, the wonderful Lancelot finally returns, in one piece, from a year-long quest.  But he's acting strangely.  Gawain investigates...
Relationships: Gawain & Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian), Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	Love Was His Banner Over Me

The figure in the valley could not have been anyone other than Sir Lancelot du Lac. It was not the fact that his armour was particularly recognisable, though it gleamed resplendent with a rare blue tint. It was not even that he was especially tall or especially well-built: he had the body of one who had led a tirelessly physical life, but he was no giant. No: it was something in the way he held himself. It was indefinable. You could put anyone else through the same training, and put them in the same suit of armour, and put them on the same horse, and they could still never look like him. They could never possess that same aura of control that Lancelot did: an undeniable look of power, but of extraordinarily _gentle_ power, if there was such a thing (and Lancelot proved that there was). It was the kind of power that knew the power of gentleness, that would resort to other means only when it had no other choice – oh, but once it did, woe betide you if you had pushed it to it. Woe betide you indeed.

Gawain gazed at Lancelot in awe, as he always did when he felt securely out of eyeshot. Oh, to be sure, he did it at other times too, just far less openly. But Lancelot was drawing closer now, picking his way between the yellow gorse and passing through the swathes of purple heather, which, as the background of the blue-armoured knight and his horse, appeared to Gawain now with a renewed beauty. The nearer Lancelot came, the quicker, as ever, beat Gawain’s heart. Finally, Lancelot lifted his visor to call Gawain’s name, which Gawain, dismounting, returned, and then Lancelot was dismounting too, and then, at last, with a clatter of metal-on-metal that Gawain barely heard, Lancelot was embracing him.

A whole year he had waited for that fleeting moment. A year of knowing that Lancelot was out there somewhere, putting himself in mortal danger. Well, that, of course, was the life they led, and it was a noble life, and Gawain could hardly imagine a different – but normally he could be _with_ him, watching over him, always there lest he should ever, finally, fail.

Lancelot fail! It was almost unimaginable. The two things seemed impossible to combine, like oil and water: and especially now, as he made his triumphant return to Camelot, saviour, no doubt, of innocents, upholder of justice, preserver of peace.

‘You’re back,’ said Gawain, and God’s wounds, he thought, it would have been a lame declaration even from one who was _not_ a Knight of the Round Table.

‘I am,’ said Lancelot, and laughed. How Gawain had missed that sound!

‘Let’s get you home,’ said Gawain, clapping him on the shoulder. Lancelot hesitated, and Gawain immediately worried it was something he had said, or the way he’d said it. But it was only momentary, and Lancelot was back on his horse, and Gawain on his, and they rode side by side back to Camelot.

*

Lancelot’s reception in Camelot was one of unbridled joy. A tremendous feast was laid out, as was customary; the court’s finest musicians were in quite as full a flow as the (equally fine) wine; there was dancing and singing and laughter; beautiful decorations had been hung round the place – festoons of flowers and mysterious gold shapes; and through it all wafted the mouth-watering aromas of every food imaginable.

For the Table may have been Round for a reason, but Camelot’s greatest knight had returned, so no expense was to be spared. And rightly so, was Gawain’s private opinion, as he observed Lancelot acting as courteously and modestly as ever, seated between King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. His dark hair blazed about its edges in the torchlight; his face was flushed with the heat and the wine. Pointedly, Gawain had been watching only on and off, but now he was nonetheless embarrassed to make eye-contact with Lancelot as he, by chance, looked in Gawain’s direction. Gawain was giving a slightly sheepish smile as Arthur chose that moment to abruptly stand, and make a toast to the returned hero, the greatest Knight of the Round Table.

The place erupted in cheers and hoots and cries of ‘Lancelot!’, Gawain hardly the quietest among them. But when Gawain looked over again, Gaheris having called away his attention for a moment, he saw that Lancelot had his head bowed a little, and his eyes cast down. Had Gawain been nearer, he might have asked if he was well, but he was many heads away, and anyway, Guinevere was now talking to him, so he _must_ be well.

The rest of the evening passed as any other such feast, though Gawain enjoyed himself more than he had felt able to all year. Camelot felt complete again, with a consequent sense of stability that reassured Gawain into a greatly relieved state of mind.

So it was very late that night, when everyone had had more wine than even the knights’ formidable constitutions could take unscathed, that Gawain, having been co-opted by his brothers the entire time, looked back at Lancelot’s side of the table and found that he was no longer there. For a split second, his stomach – not helped by his slightly drunken state – lurched, and he experienced something of the sobering effect that a shock can give. But Lancelot had surely just gone to bed. Finally returning after his long travails, he must have been exhausted.

Now Gawain had lost track of the conversation, which at any rate, by this point, made little sense, and he himself was hit with a sudden wave of tiredness. So, fairly surreptitiously, he left his seat, and went off into the wing of the castle that made up the knights’ personal quarters. His was at the end of the corridor, which meant that on the way, he had to pass Lancelot’s. For the last twelve months he had done so almost every night – Arthur having kept him at Camelot in Lancelot’s extended absence, for counsel and defence – always trying not to look at it, because behind it lay the proper haunt of Lancelot, cold and spiritless without him. _I sought him, but I could not find him: I called him, but he answered me not._ That a tiny part of him, every time, had thrilled with the impossible idea that if he were to recklessly open the door, Lancelot _would_ have been there, Gawain refused to admit even to himself. 

Now, though… Gawain lingered outside the door. Every bone in his body was alert to the strip of light that now framed its edges for the first time in a very long year. He would have liked to have thought that it was only the wine, still fuzzing his senses, that was making the notion of opening that door so excruciatingly appealing. If the fire was still burning, as it evidently was, then Lancelot must still be awake. And he was just behind that door—

That door which just then opened, to reveal Sir Lancelot in something of a dishabille. Lancelot looked unsurprisingly taken aback by Gawain’s being there, standing already so close to the threshold. ‘Lancelot—’ ‘Gawain?’

Gawain had seen him in such a state of disarray before, and worse, but tonight – or was he only imagining it, having been away from him for so long? – there appeared to be a strange new look on his face. ‘I was just – going to bed,’ said Gawain, although he was well aware that that did not explain how he had come to be standing so close to Lancelot’s door at the opposite end of the corridor.

‘Very well,’ said Lancelot, looking away. Gawain realised he was still standing there, and suddenly moved to the side, graciously allowing Lancelot out of his own room. Looking at him – for although he took a couple of steps forward, Lancelot did not go – Gawain again wanted to ask if he was all right. But it was Lancelot, _the_ Lancelot! So the question stuck in his throat. Lancelot must have recognised that he had been about to speak, however, because he remained standing there. And, now he was finally back, Gawain was desperate to keep him there for a moment longer. So he did not hold back from declaring, as the thought flooded over him, ‘God’s wounds, Lancelot, how wonderful it is that you’re here again at last!’ Lancelot smiled and looked away again. ‘Thank you, Gawain. I’m glad to be back,’ he added. They stood there another second or two and then each gave a polite little nod and hurried off their separate ways.

Gawain closed his chamber door behind him, and stood for a minute with his back against it. He couldn’t believe the reassurance he felt now Lancelot was back – was _home_. All of a sudden he was overcome with emotion – but it was the wine, and the weariness, and the excitement. He took a deep breath and the lump in his throat disappeared again. He wasn’t sure if he was still thinking about Lancelot as he drifted off to sleep, but despite the way the room had been spinning as he’d closed his eyes, that night he slept more soundly than he had in a very long time.

*

The next day, Gawain didn’t see Lancelot until evening, when he was back in his usual place at the Round Table, quietly eating his dinner. This time, Gawain saw him leave, earlier than most, and this time Gawain determined to follow him immediately, out of some still-lingering, though vague and also impossibly ridiculous – for this was Sir Lancelot du Lac! – intuition that something was wrong.

From a reasonable distance, Gawain followed, and was surprised to find him heading towards the armoury. When Gawain crept in, he found Lancelot standing before his armour. It glowed fiercely in the protean light of the candle Lancelot held to it, cyan where it was illuminated, strange deep midnight blue at the receding edges. Black, flickering shadow welled in a small dint in the breastplate, evidently not yet fixed by the blacksmith. Lancelot ran unsteady fingers across it, his index finger lingering there for a second. Gawain’s consternation at this strange scene was such that he was unable to stop himself. ‘Lancelot--’ ‘Gawain?’

Lancelot flinched upon finding Gawain, a dark but fortunately recognisable figure – and voice – standing in the doorway with a hand on the frame. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Gawain, quietly, but in his more forceful tones.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Lancelot, folding his arms.

‘Lancelot…’ Gawain narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, and he was even less sure how to get it out of him. For that matter, he wasn’t sure that anything _was_ wrong, and for all his brazenness, the notion of acting out of turn towards Lancelot, of misreading things, of making any kind of an ass of himself in Lancelot’s presence and over Lancelot’s own private business, no less, was an utterly mortifying concept to him. But there was enough of a sense for him to risk it. Carefully. For once.

He crossed the room until he too was within touching distance of Lancelot’s blue armour, where it clad a mannequin like a third member of the exchange.

‘I beg you to forgive me if I am being an ass,’ said Gawain, slowly. ‘And as you know, I very seldom beg.’

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. Gawain pressed on. ‘I cannot help but feel that you have been acting a wee bit… strangely, since you’ve been back at Camelot – since you’ve been back home.’

Lancelot averted his eyes. ‘I was just seeing if it had been mended yet.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘It would hardly be the latest we’ve had to wear our armour, would it, Gawain?’ at which point he looked back, for just a second, into Gawain’s eyes, and from that sudden briefest flash of intensity it was Gawain who now had to look away. Well, he was right, of course, though Gawain felt it wasn’t quite the point. There had been times when all the alarums would clamour, the sentries yelling followed by cries of panic and confusion from the unarmed members of the court, and the knights would don their armour as rapidly as possible, ready to hurtle outside and defend their lord and ladies. Once - not long, in fact, before Lancelot had left for his twelvemonth quest - the squires had been unable to reach the armoury in time, so the knights had been forced to help arm each other. Gawain had more than a sneaking suspicion that it was to that occasion that Lancelot was primarily then referring, because it had been only the pair of them. And although neither had said anything, through the whole ritual – which had been over all too quickly for Gawain – all Gawain had been able to think, as he tightened this strap, tied this knot; as Lancelot threaded that cord, and fitted that piece – was that one of them might not make it back: that this could be their final moment of something like peace together. Such a thought was always there in the back of his mind, before any battle, any quest, but normally he was able to push it down and out of sight. That moment had been too intimate for his normal psychological defence to work. The moat had been crossed, the walls of his mind bombarded, scaled, overcome.

‘Well,’ said Gawain, nodding at the dint in the armour after a silent minute, ‘it’s not much of a thing.’

‘Hm,’ went Lancelot, noncommittally. 

‘They’ll have it fixed in no time.’

‘It could have been worse.’

‘Exactly,’ said Gawain, with relief, ‘that’s the spirit.’

Lancelot lifted his candle away from the armour and towards himself, so the beautiful sculpture of his face was painted in gold, black, and red, reminding Gawain, for a dazzling moment, of his illuminated Book of Hours. But he surprised him in saying, ‘No, Gawain, it’s not the spirit. What I mean is that if I’d been just inches nearer – if that axe had swung just marginally differently – you know. _This_ time it was only a few dints.’ He hesitated. ‘You know. Well—’ he suddenly moved. ‘I must be going to bed.’ At the door he looked back at Gawain, looked him quickly up and down. Was it the lighting, or did Lancelot nervously whet his lips?

He was gone. His mind racing, Gawain stood there for a couple of silent minutes. And then he left too.

_In my bed by night I sought him that my soul loved: I sought him, but I found him not._

*

On the third day, Gawain didn’t go to dinner. In fact, he had been out of Camelot all day, joining Mass at the back of the chapel and leaving as soon as it ended. Lancelot had presumably been there too, but Gawain had very deliberately not looked for him. Their exchange in the armoury the night before had plagued his sleep – a far cry from the peace of the first night. So out he went, on his horse, galloping off into the forest to he knew not where. 

After some time, when he had slowed to a canter, he caught sight of a large, gently moving shape amongst the trees. He stopped suddenly. It was a roe – a lovely roe, burnished-backed, with elegant legs, glassy black eyes, and short antlers like saplings, chewing quietly on a sprig of hawthorn. It lifted its head, looking at Gawain. And then it backed away into the forest.

Suddenly determined to keep it in sight – though without the smallest intention of hunting it, O, God forbid! – Gawain followed after it. He followed it through thickets. He followed it over bubbling streams. He followed it uphill and downhill. At last the roe stopped, resolutely, causing Gawain to career to an abrupt halt behind it. Recovering himself, he patted his horse, and raised his head, and saw—

‘Lancelot—’ ‘Gawain?’

The man was hunched over a stone slab in the middle of the clearing, almost prostrate, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. At Gawain’s cry he had lifted his head, and Gawain was stricken to see that his eyes were red and watery from weeping. His bluish helmet was cast off some way from him; his shield was abandoned on a branch. ‘Lancelot—Lancelot—’ In his haste, Gawain staggered from his horse; he ran to Lancelot and fell to his knees before him, gripping Lancelot’s hands with both of his own. ‘Lancelot, what—’

‘I can’t—’ Lancelot broke off with a choking sob. He was shaking. Gawain leaned further forward, gripping tighter, desperately reaching for Lancelot’s wrists and then back to his hands, not knowing what he was doing, conscious only of Lancelot’s frightening distress.

‘Breathe,’ said Gawain, a little roughly; it was a worthless thing to say, but Gawain had not the faintest idea what to do. Even while he had suspected that something was wrong with Lancelot, he had not considered how he would act if and when he discovered that he was right in his surmises. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He had seen Lancelot hurt, many times; he had seen him suffer. But never like this. And never alone, like this. So ‘Breathe – Lancelot, Lancelot, breathe—’ was all he could say, and he said it over and over, frantically. 

At last, Lancelot did begin to breathe more deeply, though he still did not speak. Suddenly Gawain cupped his face in his hands, tilting Lancelot’s head back, just a fraction, so he could look at him. ‘Lancelot, dear God,’ said Gawain, and his voice rasped with it. ‘What is the matter?’ Lancelot looked taken aback at this unexpected gesture. For a brief moment they held eye-contact, and then he looked away – at least, as much as he could, when the two were so close. 

Then he laughed – hollowly – it was only just this side of another sob. ‘You were right,’ he managed.

‘Right?’

‘I have been acting strangely. Gawain—’ Gawain realised he was still holding Lancelot’s head. He removed his hands – but Lancelot caught them half-way. ‘Gawain… I’m scared.’

‘You’re scared?’ repeated Gawain. ‘Scared of – what? ’Swounds, you’re – you’re _Lancelot!’_

‘Exactly!’ cried Lancelot. ‘I’m Lancelot, the great Sir Lancelot du Lac – that’s what they say. I can’t be scared. I’m not _allowed_ to be scared. And – Gawain, I’m not allowed to fail. I can’t fail. But I shall – at some point I shall. And what will—’ his voice became strangled. Without thinking, Gawain wove his fingers into Lancelot’s. Lancelot took a breath. ‘What will happen then, Gawain?’

‘Oh, Lancelot,’ breathed Gawain. ‘I _know._ I _know!_ Lancelot, it was the same for me. I was “the greatest Knight of the Round Table”, so people said; so men and monsters said, and laughed, when they held a sword to my throat. I never failed – not properly – because I knew that if I did, then, then, everyone I loved, they could—’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but his meaning was obvious enough. ‘But then _you_ came.’

Lancelot’s fingers detached themselves from Gawain’s; for a horrible moment, Gawain thought he had spoken out of season. But Lancelot was not moving away; rather, he was moving closer, seeking greater contact, grasping Gawain’s arms. Gawain could not dare to hope… Hope for what? For Lancelot to feel towards him with the intensity that he felt towards Lancelot. Love – ardent love, as spiritual as earthly love could be, but also physical as _only_ earthly love could be. They were knights: their lot was to defend the defenceless, and to defend them with their bodies. A life such as theirs – Gawain felt this painfully now, as he reciprocated Lancelot’s movements, scrabbling for purchase on his tunic, dragging him as close as he could, both of them still leant over the stone altar – a life such as theirs could only remind them of the sanctity of the body. Each of them was breathing hard now, as in battle, holding each other tightly. Gawain was frightened to let go.

‘When you came to Camelot,’ he said, hardly above a whisper, ‘you relieved that burthen. I realise now that you still carry it. But Lancelot—’

‘Gawain—’

‘—you don’t have to carry it alone. Lancelot – have you any notion of how I have worried for you all this year – have you any notion how many times I have passed by the door to your rooms and almost flung myself in, under the insane idea of the wild chance that you could be waiting there? Have you any notion how many suppers I have stared at your empty seat and wondered where you were, and imagined you in peril, and been unable to eat? Do you know that I am always so afraid that one day, -- outrageous, ridiculous, though it seems – you will fail – and I won’t be there when you need me? O, Lancelot, O my dear, dear, beloved Sir Lancelot…’

‘Gawain – O, Gawain, I’ve none of your eloquence. But have _you_ any notion of how _I_ have feared for _you?_ Of how I fear for you always? That one day, _you_ will fail, -- outrageous idea – and I may not be there when _you_ need _me?_ I went alone on that twelvemonth quest out of the terror of you getting hurt. O, Gawain, do you recall that night in the armoury, last year? I had never allowed the worry to fill my head before, but in that moment, all I could imagine… But I cannot say how I felt. Gawain…’ he took a shuddering breath. ‘Let me simply _show_ how I love you.’ 

And he kissed him, deeply. Gawain was reminded of the blissful swelling in one’s chest when the monks sang their praises in unison, their faces raised to heaven; beatific feeling, as if the voices that surrounded one were themselves heavenly hosts, lightening one’s soul, cleansing it, filling it with heady love, lifting one, lifting one… 

O, blasphemous thought! …or was it? O, how could it have been – Gawain kissed back with earnest, tangling his fingers in Lancelot’s hair, his tunic – how could such a feeling, such a love, be blasphemous? How, O how, could it be aught other than _sacred?_ _His left hand is under my head_ , the ancient words rang in Gawain’s ears, feeling Lancelot’s hands, at last, upon his body, _and his right hand doth embrace me_. Random scraps of verse, half-remembered in his ecstasy, flitted through his mind as he found Lancelot’s hands in other places, as he explored with his own:

 _Thy neck_ (as Gawain kissed it) _is as the tower of David built for defence: a thousand shields hang therein, and all the targets of the strong men._

 _Thy lips, my Spouse,_ (as Gawain found them all over him) _drop as honeycombs: honey and milk are under thy tongue, and the savour of thy garment is as the savour of Lebanon._

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine._

*

At last, they were still, lying silently on the verdant grass beside the altar, wreathed together as woodbine around a tree. Peacefully they breathed. The sun was setting when Gawain finally stirred. ‘Arise my love, my fair one,’ he said, softly. ‘It’s growing cold and late. We must be back at Camelot.’

Lancelot lifted his head. _His head is as fine gold_ , thought Gawain, _his locks curled, and black as a raven_. ‘Will you stay with me, Gawain?’ whispered Lancelot. 

‘Lancelot,’ said Gawain, ‘I could _wish_ for nothing more.’

**Author's Note:**

> All the italicised quotations, 'Arise my love, my fair one', and indeed the title, are taken from The Song of Solomon, 1599 Geneva version. I thought about using the Wycliffe Bible because it predates the Geneva by about two hundred years and so is actually medieval, but frankly the Geneva is more poetic. 
> 
> The roe is also an allusion to it, but also to things like 'Lancelot and the Hart with the White Foot', and the First Branch of the Mabinogi. How does it lead Gawain to Lancelot? Hard pass, but if medieval writers were allowed to do stuff like that then so am I. It's ~postmodern~.
> 
> The simile of the woodbine (honeysuckle) weaving around the tree is straight outta Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde, Book III. Ignore the fact that that implies disaster for Gawain & Lancelot -- I just like the image, okay? Don't panic.
> 
> I very nearly made the whole thing based on the Welsh tradition. You've no idea how tempted I was to change Camelot back to Celli Wig. I decided against it in the end, because really this is the Lancelot (in particular) of Malory, and a story of his self-damaging perfectionism, as we see in Malory. But it's set in Wales.
> 
> Finally, I deliberated very hard over whether Gawain had a Book of Hours or a psalter. I prefer the word psalter. But Books of Hours came a bit later, and most of the rest of my medievalism here is more of their sort of era. I'm sorry to any medievalists who may be horrified by my syncretic medievalism. My lame defence is that anachronism is itself extremely medieval...


End file.
